


in the arms of the same sea

by moogle62



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: First Time Blow Jobs, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 19:29:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11858145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moogle62/pseuds/moogle62
Summary: Are you going to let another year go, Tommy thinks, or are you going to fucking well jump?





	in the arms of the same sea

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously this is 10000% fictional, keep it secret, keep it safe 2kforever. I haven't written anything in eight months and then I fall into this abyss and this happens. FIGURES. A billion thanks as ever to laliandra, for pulling me into this pit and then for staying in it and screaming with me <3

Tommy wakes up after an indeterminate amount of time asleep. It could be anything from an hour to a day; his internal clock feels skewed and fuzzy. The bed he’s sleeping in smells like Jon’s laundry detergent.

He’s crashing at Jon’s after the party. There were fireworks at the end, literal ones, the bunch of them standing in the dark and watching the sky light up, greens and reds and yellows, and Tommy had seen each colour light up over the way Jon smiled, all surprised, even still, that people go out of their way for him.

Tommy lies there for a minute, weighing up whether he can roll over and go back to sleep or whether he really does have to get up for the bathroom, but inevitably biology wins. He navigates the dark hallway without bumping into anything, and he’s done and on his way back when Jon’s door opens.

“Shit,” Tommy says, “did I wake you up?”

Jon is sleep-rumpled in his doorway. His hair is a fucking disaster. He’s wearing a ratty t-shirt and a pair of grey sweats and maybe it’s because it’s that juncture between late night and early morning but Tommy can’t stop himself from thinking about it the way he usually can, just wants to drop to his knees there in the corridor, put his hands on the soft skin just under Jon’s tee, kiss this belly, his hips, the tops of his thighs, until Jon’s breathing frays at the edges.

It probably wouldn’t take much. Jon’s ticklish, as Tommy had learned to his extreme delight one afternoon in the office, somehow catching Jon’s side just the right way and making Jon leap, shrieking, out of his way. _Oh my god_ , Tommy had said, with dawning and incredulous realisation, and Jon had waved a finger at him, said, _no, no, stop making that face, you’re definitely coming to some dumb conclusEAGHS_ and Tommy hadn’t let him finish the sentence, just tickled and tickled him as long as Jon had let it happen, until Jon was slapping his hands away, laughing till he cried.

That feels worlds away from this moment, the two of them caught in the silence of the night.

Jon squints. “What’re you doing up?” he says. “What time is it? Is it even a time?”

“Sure it is,” Tommy says. “Don’t know what time though.”

Jon yawns, scratches the back of his neck. His t-shirt rides up. Tommy feels himself swallow, throat dry.

He thinks about nights back in DC. The pair of them watching infomercials on mute at three in the morning, Jon half-asleep and half in Tommy’s lap. Jon bringing some guy home, the muffled laughter on the other side of their shared bedroom wall, the way Tommy had heard even when he was trying not to listen. Jon, standing on the table for reasons known only to him, holding court about something he’d heard on CSPAN and couldn’t let go, the way he used his hands to make his points differently when he felt comfortable. Nights and nights where Tommy was too tired, too worried, too fucking scared to do anything but look at one of his best friends, for years and fucking years. The last night, when Jon’s bags had been waiting by the door, and they’d ended up pressed together on their couch, Jon panting against Tommy’s throat like he was dying, the pair of them tangled so close Tommy swore he could feel Jon’s heartbeat, Jon’s mouth tasting like beer and his hands under Tommy’s shirt the best damn thing he’d ever felt.

And Tommy hadn’t mentioned it in the morning, and Jon had moved away, and Favs had moved away,  and Tommy had worked and worked until his soul felt thin, and then, finally, he’d taken a breath and moved too.

Sometimes it feels surreal, all the things they’ve done. All the years it’s been since they were all in the White House together, since Tommy had swallowed back terror and kissed Jon in their dingy shared kitchen and Jon had made a noise in the back of his throat like someone getting their first taste of relief.

Are you going to let another year go, he thinks, or are you going to fucking well jump?

“Hey,” he says. His voice comes out almost hoarse. It feels like a stranger is talking. “Remember DC?”

Jon’s expression sharpens almost at once. “You mean the place we lived and worked for years? The political centre of the country? No, yeah, ringing no bells. Where’re you going with this, Tommy?”

Tommy crosses the hallway to him. “Here,” he says, and he drops to his knees like he wants, straight to the ground, eye level with the bulge in Jon’s awful sweatpants. Jon makes a strangled noise and doesn’t move away.

“What are you doing?” he says, his voice going high. “Tommy, what -”

“Can I?” Tommy asks. Down here his mind is quieter. He leans in, runs his hands up Jon’s thighs, the sweatpants soft against his palms. “Do you want -”

“Yes,” Jon blurts, before Tommy can even finish the sentence; when Tommy looks up, his face is brick red, obvious even in the near dark. “Fucking hell, Tommy, _yes_. What are you even - how is that even a question? What did you think I was going to say?”

“You should say what you want,” Tommy tells him, and he’s fiddling with the waistband of Jon’s sweats, curling his fingers into the elastic. “I want to know what you want.”

He can feel Jon’s dick twitch in front of his face, that close. “I thought you knew,” Jon says, sounding strangled. “I thought you knew what I wanted. It’s not like anyone can accuse me of being subtle, god, it’s not one of my many strengths.”

Tommy wants to press his face against Jon’s dick, wants to feel it harden further against his cheek. He wants to nuzzle into Jon’s crotch, breathe in deep. _I thought you knew_ , Jon is saying, again, and Tommy hadn’t. Of course Tommy hadn’t, not even at all. It sticks in his chest.

“Put your hand in my hair,” he says, voice rough-edged, and Jon swears very low, slides his fingers just the other side of gentle until he’s got a grip on the back of Tommy’s hair and Tommy feels grounded for the first time in a long while.

“Can I?” he says, again. “Do you want - I want to suck you.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Jon says, ragged. His fingers flex and then stop, abortive, like he thought about pushing Tommy’s face forwards and then thought again. It sends ripples down Tommy’s spine, and he gasps, can’t help it.

“Do it,” Tommy says, barely recognising his own voice through the need. “Please, Jon - _fuck_ ,” and Jon shoves him forward, pushing Tommy’s face against his hard, hot dick.

All the blood in Tommy’s body is in his own dick, pounding hard, but apparently there’s still some spare to heat his face, furnace hot. He’s panting; opens his mouth and sloppily presses it against the line of Jon’s dick, leaving wet marks on Jon’s sweatpants.

“Oh, Jesus,” Jon is saying, above him, “oh, _fuck_ , oh, Tommy, I didn’t think you - how long have you wanted this, fucking Christ,” on and on, and it washes over Tommy like cool, clean, relief, Jon’s familiar voice all twisting and needy the way he remembers from years ago, Jon tucked sweatily along his side on their shared couch as Tommy had jerked him off, too out of his head with desperation to try for slow. “Oh, god, your mouth - fucking _do it_ already, if you’re going to, what are you doing, are you trying to kill me?”

And Tommy isn’t at all, but he can’t make himself go any faster, can’t rush himself out of this moment, Jon’s hand in his hair, his face pressed right up against Jon’s crotch where everything is calm and dark and smells like sex and Jon.

“Please, Tommy,” Jon says, and his voice cracks, his fingers tightening almost to the point of pain, and Tommy drags himself back to the moment, drags Jon’s sweats down too. Jon’s dick springs loose like something from a bit, if porn had bits, and Tommy plants his hands on Jon’s thick, firm thighs, takes his dick straight in his mouth.

It’s - it’s his first time doing this, so he doesn’t push anything, just gets his mouth as far onto Jon’s dick as he thinks he can without choking or doing anything else embarrassing, bobs his head, sucks like he likes on himself. He hopes - hopes it’s good.

It must work, though, because Jon makes a noise like Tommy maybe is killing him after all. His thighs falter under Tommy’s hands before he locks his legs, makes a clear effort to hold himself up. Jon is leaking already; Tommy can taste it, salty on his tongue. He’s thought about this for so long, thought about the way Jon would taste, the way he might moan if Tommy pressed his tongue there, just under the head. He does it now, and Jon makes a sound Tommy has never heard, not any of the nights he was trying not to listen through the wall as Jon demanded someone fuck him harder, god, were they even _trying_?

_Sure, some of it’s fake_ , Jon had said, once, airily, as though it didn’t matter at all. _Sometimes you gotta fake it till you make it, right_?

Tommy had never thought that applied to sex - not anything so intimate, not anything that strips you of everything public and brings you down to sweat and bone and base desires. How could anyone fake it when they were literally bared of defences? How could anyone expect him to put his guard back up when it would have taken so much for him to drop it that far? He remembers looking at Jon when he’d said that, his familiar beautiful face set like he was waiting for Tommy to argue, and had thought, too fast for him to squash it, _you wouldn’t have to fake it with me_.

“Tommy,” Jon says, and his voice cracks again, something horribly raw in it. “I’m not gonna, this is gonna be stupid quick, all right? Don’t judge, all right? God, your fucking _mouth_. I never thought you’d be like this. I didn’t think you wanted -” and Tommy sucks harder, digs his fingernails into the meat of Jon’s thighs. Jon didn’t think he wanted? Sometimes Tommy wants so much he could burst with it, scatter all his pent-up, held-up feelings over their desks, over Jon’s stupid headphones and endless detritus.

Jon pulls his hair, quick and deliberate. “I’m gonna,” he says, and seems to lose his words. It’s heady, making Jon sound like that, like all his intellect, all his sharpness, is lost against how much Tommy wants to make him come.

“Yeah,” Tommy pants, pulling back. He jerks Jon off hard, using his other hand for balance still, and Jon doubles over at the waist, grabs hold of the doorframe.

“Jesus,” Jon says, “oh, fuck, oh, _fuck_ ,” and he takes a breath he doesn’t let out, coming in desperate pulses over Tommy’s hand. It splashes onto Tommy’s mouth and he slips his tongue out to taste it, warm on his lips. Jon is panting like he’s run a marathon. He thumps to his knees.

“Okay?” Tommy says, his own chest heaving. “Jon?”

Jon holds onto him, clutches at Tommy’s shoulders. Tommy shuffles forward, pulls them together as best he can. Jon is solid and sturdy in his arms. Tommy can feel how hard he’s breathing. He wants to kiss him. He can taste Jon’s come in his mouth and he can’t remember what Jon’s mouth tastes like.

“Kiss me?” Tommy asks. His voice wavers but he can’t do anything about that. He feels like he’s been flayed open, like he’s been holding all this back with string and force of will and Jon has cut both those things down.

“Stop _asking_ ,” Jon says, but not like he’s really frustrated, and he pulls back enough to get his mouth on Tommy’s. His grip tightens on Tommy’s shoulders and Tommy pulls him forward again, has them flush together, feels the rapid rise and fall of Jon’s chest. His mouth is warm, his lips soft. He opens to Tommy as easy as anything, like he’d been waiting for this.

Tommy’s throat is tight. “Jon,” he tries,” against Jon’s mouth, no idea where he’s going with it, and Jon says, “Shhh,” like he thinks Tommy needs to hear it, soft like Tommy only rarely hears him. “I’ve got you,” Jon says, and he’s suddenly fumbling with Tommy’s boxers, shoving his hand at a clumsy angle under the waistband and then he’s got Tommy’s dick in his hand, squeezing slightly too hard, and Tommy can’t help but groan. The sound breaks in the middle.

“I’ve got you,” Jon says again, and jerks him off with nothing sweet in it. It’s just what Tommy needs, he realises, Jon’s single-mindedness focused in on him like this. Jon’s hand on his dick with no sympathy, nothing that could make Tommy feel like they weren’t in this together. Just Jon moving like he’s sure and kissing Tommy like he really fucking means it. Tommy groans again, tips forwards, pressing his forehead to Jon’s.

“Jon,” he gasps, and Jon says, “ _Look_ at me,” and then, begging, “Tommy, please, look at me,” and Tommy drags his head up to look Jon in the eye just as Jon twists his wrist, and Tommy comes, gasping, all over himself. He comes down, trembling, and Jon tugs him into his arms. Maybe they’re both trembling; Tommy can’t tell. He pushes his face into the sweaty curve of Jon’s neck, breathes. Breathes again. They hold each other up.

Finally, Jon says, “Okay, we have to move, we have to get off the goddamn floor. I don’t have young person knees any more, come on,” and clambers up to his feet.

Tommy isn’t sure if he can move. He isn’t even sure if he can open his eyes. If he stays here, keeps his eyes closed tight, he can stay in this moment. Everything will be quiet and he’ll be able to think about the shape of Jon’s mouth against his. He won’t have to think about anything else, won’t have to have to look in Jon in the eye and try to explain how his chest has felt like it’s been cracking open for years.

“Hey,” Jon says, when Tommy doesn’t move. He sounds quiet too, nothing like he sounds when they’re recording, or when they’re hanging out all together. He isn’t talking to keep a room’s attention; he’s talking just to Tommy. “Tommy. Come on.”

Tommy looks up. Jon is holding out a hand.

“Up you get,” Jon says, as Tommy takes it. “There we go, there you are, all ten foot of you.”

Jon looks different like this. He’s searching Tommy’s face for something, and he must find it, because the line of his shoulders relaxes. Tommy hasn’t let go of his hand.

“I didn’t know,” he says, because it’s all he can think to say. “What you wanted. I had no idea.”

Jon’s whole face softens, horribly, familiarly fond. “Of course you didn’t,” he says, pulling back some fake dismissive tone. “You can’t be expected to know things with that many muscles. It stunts the brain, I hear, all those fucking gym visits. Bad for the oxygen supply.”

“That isn’t remotely how science works,” Tommy says. It’s automatic at this point, rallying back to Jon. It makes Jon smile big, all over his face. The moonlight is catching the edge of his curls, showing him off.

_You’re beautiful_ , Tommy thinks again. He feels like he thinks it very loudly.

Jon’s fingers curl around his. He hasn’t let go either. “Come to bed?” His voice goes up at the end, like it only turned into a question at the last second, and it makes his face do something complicated about it.

“Is there room for me next to Pundit?” Tommy asks. “I’m not kicking your dog out of bed.”

“Damn right you’re not,” Jon says. “And I’m not moving either, so you’ll just have to fit your giant self in there somehow, all right? Fair warning, I hog the duvet. And I probably snore. Pundit definitely snores. And I won’t apologise for kicking you in my sleep, You probably deserve it; you’re probably trying to steal the covers, you’ve got that look about you.”

“You make it sound so appealing,” Tommy says. He’s starting to grin, can feel it tugging irrepressibly at the corners of his mouth.

“What can I say,” Jon says, shrugging, “I’m a writer. I have a gift, I can’t help it. You coming or not?”

Tommy feels pink and happy, lighter than he’s felt in months. Jon’s hand is in his. The day is tipping into morning and Jon wants, as much as Tommy does, to see the day in with him.

“Yeah,” Tommy says, and watches Jon smile even bigger somehow. “Yeah, I am.”

**Author's Note:**

> [a side tumblr for howling](https://mpdgoblin.tumblr.com/)


End file.
